Grey dawn now and the light
still burns by the bed.
Its brightness dies on the wall
while the sun rises behind me,
flared square on the carpet
in its progress across the room.
Sounds from the kitchen absolve me
from making a meal
as your otherwise silence carries
beyond the morning’s murmur
of news and music. The doors
are open. Air translates
the distance between us. Rooms
will divide all day
in the house when sunbeams trail
their slant through dust. The hours
will share their warmth with our work
and tonight the lamp will burn by the
bed.
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